poetry month

You lose your love for her and thenIt is her who is lost,And then it is both who are lost,And nothing is ever as perfect as you want it to be.

In a very ordinary worldA most extraordinary pain mingles with the small routines,The loss seems huge and yetNothing can be pinned down or fully explained.

You are afraid.If you found the perfect loveIt would scald your hands,Rip the skin from your nerves,Cause havoc with a computered heart.

You lose your love for her and then it is her who is lost.You tried not to hurt and yetEverything you touched became a wound.You tried to mend what cannot be mended,You tried, neither foolish nor clumsy,To rescue what cannot be rescued.

You failed,And now she is elsewhereAnd her night and your nightAre both utterly drained.

How easy it would beIf love could be brought home like a lost kittenOr gathered in like strawberries,How lovely it would be;But nothing is ever as perfect as you want it to be.